I never saw it coming when Maureen did leave me. Her words that day wouldn’t register. I heard the sounds they made, but it was like they didn’t penetrate my brain.
I’m leaving you, Drake… I can’t live with you any longer. I don’t love you any more and I’m damn sure you don’t love me.I don’t think you ever did.You don’t know how to love anyone but yourself.
I spent the following month in a funk. Maureen moved out of our apartment and within a month, had moved in with Chris. She obtained a temporary restraining order to keep me from contacting her. I had to take time off from work because I couldn’t concentrate. I spent days in my sweats, drinking myself into a stupor each night in order to fall asleep. I came really close to losing my privileges at New York Presbyterian, but luckily, had a sympathetic boss.
Lara saved me from total breakdown, helping me to see that my marriage was fated to fall apart because Maureen and I were not sexually compatible. That I was a Dominant, and wouldn’t be happy unless I had someone sexually submissive as a partner.
I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to, for there was nothing I could do about the past. Now, my life was well-ordered, and everything was clear, delineated, predictable. I was in complete control of everything in my life. It was perfect.
Really.
CHAPTER FIVE
On Friday afternoon, once my last case of the day was done, I left the OR and spoke with the wife of my latest patient. After that, I dictated my notes on the procedure and looked over the cases on my slate for Monday. If I left right away, I'd get home just before seven, shower, eat a light meal, then I'd make my way to the fundraiser Ethan was hosting – one of the first Friday evenings I'd had off in … I didn't know how long.
A night off to mix and mingle with power elite in the philanthropic circles in Manhattan – maybe drum up some donations for my father's foundation. I'd leave the fundraiser, go home and change, and then we were scheduled to play at O’Riley’s at ten. A busy day and night as usual.
I was meeting Brent Jameson, a colleague of mine in Neurosurgery, for a drink after work to discuss an upcoming convention where we would both be presenting papers. We usually met at The Horn and Crown, a brew house a few blocks from the hospital and so I drove home for a quick shower and to change clothes before the fundraiser. I'd grab something to eat at the bar and then make my way to Ethan's for the event.
The Horn and Crown was a regular haunt for staff at New York Presbyterian and they had a bottle of my favorite brand of vodka – Russian, called Anisovaya. I picked up a taste for it from my father, a Sovietophile who loved all things Russian. A strident socialist, my father idealized the Soviet Union under Gorbachev, and I suspect he was actually sad when it collapsed, the Berlin Wall falling. He made dire predictions about lawlessness there, and his predictions came true.
We disagreed on most things political. As a teenager with a penchant for Libertarianism, I did not see eye to eye with him on the subject of Russia or politics in general. I was happy to see the crumble of the Soviet Union. He mourned it, spending even more time on his old Russian car, a Lada, which was held together with duck tape and love.
The night the Berlin Wall fell, he poured us each a glass of Anisovaya and we shot them back. I was only thirteen but it seemed as if I graduated to being a man in my father's eyes on that night. The anise-flavored alcohol had been my favorite ever since.
When I arrived at the bar, Brent was already there. The bartender recognized me and was on top of things, pushing a shot of Anisovaya towards me.
I shot it back and sighed. While I enjoyed tequila shots now and then, and a beer or two on occasion, vodka was my drink. I ordered a martini and Brent and I caught up on things, discussing cases, and then our papers. Finally, the bartender pushed an iced martini towards me, a twist of lime as garnish just the way I liked it. I checked my cell and before I knew it, it was almost time to go to the fundraiser.
I glanced around the bar and as my gaze moved over the crowd, I caught sight of a couple of attractive young women standing at a table along the periphery of the bar next to a small dance floor. One of the two I recognized from NYP – a pretty blonde nursing student that I'd seen around during her surgical rotation.
The woman with her was brunette and on the petite side, with a nice rack. Our eyes met momentarily, and I smiled. She wasn’t my usual type, but there was something about her. An innocent look that was in direct contrast to the sexy little black dress she was wearing that barely held in her cleavage. I wondered if she was a nurse as well but I hadn't seen her around NYP.
Maybe a new nursing student. If I hadn't been in the lifestyle, I might be tempted to go over to the table, strike up a conversation with the blonde so I could meet the brunette, but that was out of the question.
Before I left the bar, I went to the washroom for a quick pit stop and bumped into the pretty brunette. She pushed the door open to the woman's washroom and knocked into me. I had to grab her to keep her from falling, because she was wearing ridiculously high leather heels and hadn't seemed to have mastered them.
"Whoa," I said, and caught her by the arms, pulling her against my body. "Steady…"
"Oh, so sorry," she said and grabbed onto my shoulders. She glanced up shyly, her cheeks reddening. "I'm not really used to these."
In that moment, I was struck by the soft warmth of her body, the scent from her hair, and the soft curve of her breasts pressed against my chest.
She was delicious.
I was probably half a foot taller than her and from my vantage point, I was able to peek down her dress and see the swell of her breasts pushed together by the tight bodice.
Now, I had admittedly fucked a lot of women in my time. Before I was married, I played around a lot, trying to figure out what sex was all about and what I liked and needed. I was married for five years and had a lot of sex, especially in the first few years we were together. Since I divorced, I had quite a few submissives, both as regular play partners and one-offs I topped at dungeon parties.
I wasn't an inexperienced teenager, but the way my body responded to her, you would have thought I hadn't had sex for months instead of a week and a half.
In that second or two I had her in my arms, her body pressed against mine, I imagined her naked, those breasts bound with thin leather straps, the leather wrapped around them so they protruded, her nipples hard and swollen. Her lips would be parted, she'd be blindfolded, and would gasp as I ran my teeth over the sensitive peaks, just a tiny bit of pain to make her aware of how soft and warm my tongue was afterwards.
God… She was lovely.
She smelled like shampoo and citrus. I wanted to bury my face in her groin and inhale deeply.
I finally pulled myself together enough to respond. "Trying to defy the laws of physics?" I said and smiled as I helped steady her. I glanced down at her shoes once more. "Nice shoes though. Love the leather straps…"
I would love to see her naked, my leather straps binding her body, looping around her tiny waist and over her hips, down between her thighs, splitting her labia…
"Thank you," she said, straightening up with my help.
At that moment, I wished she were a submissive. She had creamy white skin, and looked to be of Celtic background with green eyes and long golden brown hair. Her shyness suggested she might incline towards submission, especially with someone older, but there was no way of knowing from such a momentary meeting. It was wishful thinking on my part.
She smiled briefly and then turned back to the bar as if she couldn't wait to get away from me.
Despite my strong response to her, I knew she was right to do so for in that moment, I wanted her the way a wolf wants a doe, the need to possess her completely welling up inside of me more powerfully than it had in a long time.
Run away, little girl. You don't belong with someone like me.
I followed her back to the bar without using the washroom, forgetting completely why I went. At that moment, I wanted to go up to
her and speak with her, but instead, I finished my martini with a gulp to help calm me. I said goodbye to Brent and made my way through the tables to the door. As I passed her table, I caught the brunette's eye and smiled. She smiled back, her expression shy.
She was submissive – I had no doubt of it. She'd never approach me herself. With her, I'd have to be the one to make the move, and I was upset that I didn’t have more time or I would have, despite the fact I never approached women outside the lifestyle.
It would likely be a huge mistake so I tried to push the encounter out of my mind as I took the stairs leading out of the pub to the street where my car was parked.
I might have to ask the blonde about her if I saw her again at the hospital. I knew it was a mistake to do so, but there was something about the pretty brunette that attracted me.
In truth, I couldn't get her out of my mind.
I drove to Ethan's apartment on Park Avenue, taking the elevator to the penthouse suite where the fundraiser was being held and put on my best game face, prepared to raise money for my foundation and donate some to Doctors Without Borders so I could help make Ethan's event a success. After getting a drink from the bar in the living room, I stood at the edge of a group of people discussing the latest antics of some politician they all loved to hate.
"Oh, Drake, I want you to meet someone." Peter, one of Judge McDermott's lackeys, pulled me away from the group. "Has his own foundation. You might know him – Nigel Benson. Sir Nigel. Recently Knighted by her Majesty for his work on the West Africa famine."
Peter led me over to one of the tallest men in the room, a heavyset fellow with a smiling face and a shock of grey hair that seemed to fall perpetually into his eyes so that he was always brushing it back. He spoke with a thick British accent, which I could hear all the way across the room.
"Nigel, this is Drake Morgan. Chairman of the Liam Morgan Memorial Foundation. Careful with his hands," Peter joked. "Neurosurgeon."
Nigel extended a huge meaty hand to me and we shook, his grip crushing. "I've already had the pleasure," Nigel said, giving me a knowing smile. "Drake."
We’d met at a dungeon party he attended with his partner. It was only later, when we’d both been at a Doctors Without Borders fundraiser that we realized we shared a mutual friend in Ethan McDermott. I had to rely on his discretion not to out me to Ethan, but then again, that would out Nigel to him as well.
"Nigel," I said, smiling back. “Always good to see you.”
"Good to see you again, as well," Nigel said, smiling distractedly. "How's brain surgery? Keeping you out of trouble, I presume…"
I laughed, knowing exactly what he meant by that. "Always," I said, noting the saucy twinkle in Nigel's eye. "I really enjoyed Travels with Nigel." Nigel's latest episode of his travel show had aired on PBS on one of the few nights I stayed awake long enough to watch a repeat.
"Oh, yes," Nigel said, turning away. "Oh, there's Elaine. Excuse me," he said and nodded to me. "Nice talking to you again."
"You as well," I said, amused that Nigel had barely spoken more than two words to me. He was a social butterfly and flitted off to speak with Ethan's wife, Elaine.
I took the moment to find another group to join, listen in to what all the people were talking about. My world was so constrained – surgery, more surgery, playing with my cover band at small gigs, occasionally tying women up and fucking them senseless, more surgery. It was good to get out and mingle.
I put my drink on the table and made my way to the washroom. On my way out, I was shocked to encounter the pretty woman from the bar and for a moment, I was speechless. Before I could say something, she saw me and turned and tried to hop away , holding the pair of leather heels she'd been wearing at the bar in one hand while she steadied herself against the wall with the other. She'd obviously fallen, her knees scraped and bloody, her palms scuffed.
Her cheeks reddened when I approached her and I knew she was embarrassed that I found her in her current condition.
“You're hurt,” I said as I went to her, looking at the heels she held. “Those shoes again?”
"Yes," she responded quietly. "I fell outside in the alley. The heel of my shoe broke."
"Here," I said and put my arm under hers so I could pick her up and carry her into the bedroom.
"Whoa," she said, her body resisting. "You don’t have to pick me up."
"Don't worry. You're light as a feather." I glanced down her body to her feet. Her hose were ripped, her ankle and knees bloody as well, bits of dirt and gravel in the wound. "You've probably sprained your ankle."
Her hands went around my neck and I carried her down the hall to a bedroom at the rear of the apartment. I placed her on the bed, and sat across from her. In the process, her dress had hiked up, the tops of her sheer black stockings and black lace garters on display. Despite the awkward situation, I couldn't help but respond to the sight of her sprawled on the bed, her legs slightly open. The vision sent a jolt to my dick, which throbbed in appreciation.
When she realized she was exposed, she quickly pulled her dress down to cover herself.
"Oh, I'm sorry…" she said, her cheeks blazing.
I smiled. "Don't worry." I took her injured foot and examined it, noting the abrasions to the skin. "I'm a doctor."
She removed her coat and covered her lap with it as if in protection from my gaze. "Still, you shouldn't have to see that."
"Oh, I don't mind." I grinned without meeting her eyes as I checked her ankle for dislocation but it looked fine. "I don't mind at all." Seeing her garters and the fact she wore stockings made me a little giddy. She was a little thing, but I suspected she was also adventurous, given her garters. I wondered if she would be adventurous enough to let me tie her up with my soft leather bindings and make her come three times in a row without stopping. At that moment, there was nothing else in the world I wanted more.
"Ouch!" she said when I moved her ankle to the left, testing to see if there was any tissue damage.
I glanced up at her. "That hurts?"
She nodded.
"What about this way?" I twisted it the other way, gently this time.
"Not as much."
Besides some abrasions on both her knees and palms, she was otherwise fine. "Don't think it's broken," I said and sat up. "You might as well take off those nylons. I'll have to treat those lacerations."
"Oh, yeah."
She hesitated for a moment and then I realized why. She didn’t want me to watch her remove her nylons.
"Oh." I glanced away, unable to stop from smiling guiltily.
I was a doctor, yes. Most of the time, when faced with a patient in distress, I was able to put on my doctor cap and stethoscope and be completely professional, even when dealing with a beautiful young woman. I was able to shut off the man almost completely.
But to her I was only a man claiming to be a doctor – a man who only seconds earlier had thought of her naked and helpless body in a scene that involved bondage and dominance…
I wondered what she would think if she knew my thoughts. Would she run away from me in horror? Would she be too curious and take a chance?
That way was dangerous, as I had learned with my ex-wife. It was very difficult to introduce the idea of kink to a woman you barely knew, let alone one you thought you knew inside and out.
I turned my head, folding my hands on my lap, trying to appear as harmless as possible while she unfastened the garters and rolled down the nylons. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, unable to resist peeking, but she caught me.
She cleared her throat. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry." I turned my head away again, grinning widely. "Just don’t get to see real garters very often."
"My best friend made me wear them," she said, her voice amused. "Now she'll be pissed that I ruined her nylons."
"It's a shame they were destroyed," I said, trying to sound serious but failing utterly to hide my amusement. "I especially like the ones with the seam up the back. Re
ally retro."
Once her nylons were off and she repositioned herself so that her thighs were covered by her coat and dress, I examined her calves, looking for any sign of a fracture. I checked her kneecaps, but they were fine was well.
"Calves and knees look great." I bit my lip to keep from grinning widely and left her on the bed, going to the en-suite bathroom to look for some supplies. I checked in the cabinets and drawers for something to clean her wounds and found a bottle of peroxide and some cotton balls, gauze and bandages. I wet a washcloth and brought everything back to the bed, using the cloth to clean off the dirt, the hydrogen peroxide to clean the wounds.
"What kind of doctor are you?" she asked, her voice light.
"Neurosurgeon."
"So you cut up brains?"
I laughed. "Something like that," I said, amused at the way the public thought of neurosurgeons. "I don’t cut them up as much as fix them. Robotically-assisted electrophysiology is my specialty. Using electrodes to treat disorders like Parkinson's and epilepsy. You're thinking pathologist. But don’t worry," I said as I washed her cuts. "We also learned to look after superficial wounds. And I have a truckload of insurance, just in case you're wondering…"
I finished tending her, conscious of her gaze on me, and when I glanced up, she looked away, her cheeks reddening once more. She was a shy little thing but so pretty with the soft golden brown hair, full lips, small youthful features. She bent forward to hold her dress and coat over her lap and I couldn’t help but notice her ample cleavage once more.
Delicious.
I wished once more that she were submissive…
"You'll be fine," I said finally, as I finished taping up her cuts. "Don't need stitches. Just a bit of antibiotic ointment and a few bandages. But you should rest your ankle." I stood up and regarded her. "Are you going to stay or do you need a ride home?"
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